


learn from one bird how to sing

by JaguarCello



Series: dash against darkness [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bakery and Coffee Shop, F/F, M/M, Soft Grunge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:36:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a girl walks into a coffee shop from the rain<br/>(her shirt is see-through and her jeans stick to her legs like a second skin, and Cosette can't stop looking)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is maybe going to be a multi-chapter fic bc god knows i need one in my life not
> 
> [here is a fanmix](http://enjolrastic.co.vu/post/47856919366/dash-against-darkness-a-cosette-x-eponine) to listen to and wish that you, too, were in a coffee shop on a rainy morning

The rain had stopped beating down onto the pavement, and had taken to listlessly sliding down the windowpanes of the coffee shop, curling the posters and signs left there to remind customers of the evils of tax-avoiding chains. Inside, it was warm enough for a slight blush to touch the cheeks of Cosette Fauchelevant, and her jumper was slung over the espresso machine - covered itself in bumper stickers and angry slogans. Her hair - straightened this morning - had gone wavy in the rain, and it fell over her shoulder like streams of gold. She pushed it out of her eyes distractedly as she chewed a pen, frowning over her textbook.

  The radio was on quietly, and a voice was murmuring about love and loss, set to a guitar, but she wasn’t listening. She was alert though, for the sound of the door and the beep that told her the espresso machine had finished, and the sound of Grantaire cursing as he smashed yet another mug – for he was new, and grumpy, and usually too hungover to function before he’d had at least three coffees.

 The door jangled open, and she looked up to see a girl, shivering, with rain-water dripping down her face and neck, hood pulled low over her forehead. Her eye make-up was running in rivets across her cheeks, and her shirt had gone see-through, and her jeans were damn, stuck tightly to her (admittedly fantastic) legs in a way that meant Cosette couldn’t stop the pen falling from her mouth with a clatter.

 The girl pulled her hood off – pulling a face at the fresh water that cascaded down her hands – and Cosette could see that her hair was as long as her own, but darker, tangled – as if it hasn’t seen a brush for a few days. She looked at Cosette, dark eyes lingering on her lips, and smiled tiredly, the shadows under her eyes vanishing for a second. Cosette was transfixed.

 “I would do anything for a coffee,” she said, and her voice was husky as if she chain-smoked. Cosette – who had never smoked, unless you counted an accidental hotboxing incident when she was sixteen - nodded mechanically.

 “Espresso? Latte?” she asked, which wasn’t really regulation because a latte cost more and so you had to assume they wanted a latte – but she found herself waiting with bated breath, as if the coffee preferences of this stranger decided her fate. She reached down to pick up the pen, placing it back onto the counter with unnecessary force, and then looked up again.

 The girl was half-smirking at her. “I don’t care, as long as it’s black,” and Cosette nodded, before forcing her hair out of her eyes and smiling back at her – almost impossible not to do, the longer her eyes lingered on the lace of the bra that was visible through her still-sodden shirt – and switched on the espresso machine.

 “Like my soul,” the girl added, and Cosette looked up, nonplussed.

 “What?” she asked, cursing herself for missing something, anything, that she’d said.

 “I like my coffee black, like my soul. It’s, er, probably the sort of thing you shouldn’t say outside the internet, I was being stupid – “ and she reached into her pocket for some change, head bowed, and Cosette could see the contrast between her dark hair and the paler skin of her scalp, and she’d had to pinch herself viciously so that she could carry on forcing the machine to cooperate.

 The girl made a slight noise of triumph, and held aloft a couple of pound coins. She leaned forwards to put them on the counter, but seemed to think better of it, and stretched to put them into Cosette’s hand. Her nails were bitten, and once-painted black but long-worn; her fingers were long, and Cosette managed to stop herself imagining just _what_ those fingers could do because propriety.

 The door jangled, and she looked up to see Courfeyrac and Marius walk in. Marius (who declared himself bi when he ordered his first chai latte) had asked Cosette out so many times that she’d had to introduce him to Courfeyrac (one of those astonishing people who really would fuck anything that moved) just to give him a new obsession. She’d come out to her (very religious) father when she had just turned seventeen, and since then had been content to be (as Courfeyrac had once put it) a “total babe magnet”.

  She frowned at them, however, angry that they’d drawn the girl’s attention away. Marius looked at the girl, looked back at her, winked, and then – whispering to Courfeyrac - slunk to a corner seat, where he and Courfeyrac soon became buried with law textbooks.

 She turned her gaze back to the girl who waited in front of her. The machine started whistling, and Cosette jumped to remove the jug – “Sorry, I’m still quite new – it’s a work experience thing, my dad’s making me do it” – and inwardly fuming at how easily she could get flustered, handed over the cup.

 “Oh, I’m sorry – I assumed you’d want drink-in, because you’re all wet – “ she blushed (like an _idiot,_  she told herself) and added “from the rain, you’re wet from the rain, and you looked cold.” She  threw her hands in the air, and muttered something about coffee grains, before bolting to the storeroom.

 “Grantaire,” she called, and a curly head popped up from behind a drum of fair-trade coffee. She paused. “Were you _sleeping_ – you know what, I don’t even want to know. I just had to share with you the news that I met the love of my life and she’s out there with Courfeyrac and Marius and do you think I can cope? Because I can’t – “ and Grantaire (sighing), sat up and held out his hands to her. She pulled him up and into a hug, and he patted her on the back gingerly.

 “You smell of whiskey,” she accused, eyes narrowing. He shrugged. “You smell of honeysuckle shower gel. Get out there and talk to her,” and he pushed her gently away.

 She slammed back out into the shop to see the girl reading her biology notes upside-down. She looked up as Cosette half-tiptoed in her kitten heels, and smiled sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind - ” she said, leaning forwards to read the name on the folder. “ - Cosette – education’s in short supply where I’m from and I was just interested.” She looked back down at the folder, hands twisting together in her lap (and Cosette wanted to hold her hands and kiss each nicotine-stained fingertip), and then looked up through long lashes. “I’m Éponine, in case you were wondering. Well, I hope you were wondering. I was, about you,” and she almost looked furious with herself before relaxing. 

 “Éponine,” Cosette repeated, and the way it sounded made Éponine desperate to make her scream it.

 “Teach me about DNA, then,” Éponine said, eyes glinting wickedly. “All I remember is that the knee-bone is connected to the thigh-bone, and that women can have multiple orgasms – “ and Cosette’s eyes widen before she’s laughing (a little nervously and a little too loudly, she thinks, but can’t stop) and behind her, Courfeyrac is snorting into his textbook.

 “Your coffee’ll get cold,” she manages, muffling another laugh with her hand.

 “Lucky we’re in a coffee house then,” Éponine answered, and pulled the first sheet towards her. “The gene,” she read, and then stopped and looked at Cosette. “Let’s start from here.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> montparnasse rocks up like the epitome of soft grunge he is  
> (cosette curses leaky pens and eponine sleeps)

The lunchtime rush - students desperate for caffeine, and elderly couples holding hands over their teacakes, mums with squawking babies in pushchairs – was over; Grantaire had finally emerged, blinking woozily, from the storeroom, and Courfeyrac and Marius had finally had class to go to, and had left, laughing about their friend Bossuet – who had come into the shop once, and spilled espresso down his trousers – who had apparently finally got himself a girlfriend, and she came with a boyfriend.

 Cosette rolled her eyes at them, and looked back over to the sofa in the corner. Éponine had curled up on it, and had slept for a couple of hours; her face was peaceful, the half-haunted, half-cocky look had disappeared and was replaced by sleepy bliss. She was impossibly lovely; Cosette imagined waking up to see that sleepy bliss, and had to start a debate with Grantaire about feminism and Thatcher, just to distract herself.

“It’s not,” Éponine’d said, yawning and putting her fourth coffee down, “that I’m bored of you. It’s just that I’ve not slept for a few days – my little brother’s been loudly complaining about the heating, and my sister turned up and is sleeping in my bed so I’m on the sofa and they’ve got the duvets – “ and she’d looked down, and worried the hang-nail of her thumb, frowning as if she could take the words back.

 Cosette had simply nodded, and shooed away Bahorel and Feuilly – friends of Courfeyrac’s who had turned up with him a few weeks back and not really left – from where they were smoking on e-cigarettes (for Feuilly was a ferocious smoker, and Bahorel ferociously competitive) on the sofa, and had found some more cushions which Grantaire had appropriated in the storeroom to sleep off his hangovers, and had gone back to reading about the triplet code.

 It was peaceful now, the wind and rain lulling rather than howling, and the paper cranes Feuilly had made her from the napkins (which Grantaire had attached to the ceiling in a fit of whimsy) whorled in the steam from the kettle. The door jangled again, and Grantaire (carefully drawing dicks on top of the coffee foam) looked up, dropped the spoon he had been using, and turned on his heel smartly. Cosette looked up.

 Enjolras – the notoriously focused politics student in her year, with a reputation for violent protests and a cruel tongue, and one of her friends – was standing there, eyes (rimmed by black glasses she didn’t know he’d worn) deeply shadowed. “Double espresso, please,” he ordered, and she wasn’t surprised that he had a caffeine problem. She’d heard rumours, even, of amphetamine use to keep him up through all the planning, and she decided to give him a free extra shot.

 He was loaded – he was practically the 1% he protested against, but he’d been the one to tack up the posters about companies sourcing milk from dictators, and he was responsible for the bumper stickers that adorned the espresso machine; he also bought at least one suspended coffee every time he came in, and she’d seen the looks of gratitude on faces that hadn’t seen hot food or drink for a week, and he’d soon dragged others in with him.  

 Grantaire was (of course, because he had a bizarre mix of ambition and crippling self-doubt) hopelessly in love with him. She could just see – if she craned her neck – that he was sitting under the shelf of spare teapots, drinking from a Fanta bottle, and she sighed.

 In the corner, Éponine stirred, sitting up and stretching languidly. The arms of her jumper slipped down, and Cosette saw narrow bands of white criss-crossing the tanned skin; Éponine looked up sharply.

 “I’m not ashamed of them, you know,” she said, pulling the sleeve up a little to reveal another striped scar. “They’re my battle wounds,” she added. “I’m here because of them, and I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. Maybe it’s because you’re the first human I’ve spoken to for a while – “ she pushed her coat off her legs, and stood up – “that wasn’t either nine or crying over our deadbeat dad. But then maybe it’s because you’ve got the loveliest smile I’ve seen,” and she was grinning now, showing a row of even teeth, and the curve of her lips was a beautiful and terrifying thing to see. Cosette wanted to taste it, taste her, but she pushed her hair out of her eyes instead.

 Cosette smiled back. “Even tigers have stripes,” she offered, and Enjolras – looking at the pair of them – quirked a (suspiciously perfect) eyebrow – his level of personal grooming was the only thing giving Grantaire hope in the “lonely road” that was near-alcoholic desperation – and sat down to wait for the machine to finish. It was ancient and battered, and as the water heated, there was a sort of oppressing silence in the room.

 Éponine looked from one perfect blonde to another, and sighed. She rapped her hand hard on counter, and Cosette and Enjolras both started from where they’d been contemplating the deeper meaning of the whorls of wood on the cupboard panelling. “I’m Éponine, and I know my way around. You’re the angry guy who hates everything – “ 

 Her words were cut off by the sound of the door, this time half-clanking as it scuffed the wall. She looked up, and seemed to half-shrink back into the sofa. “Montparnasse. I was going to call – “ Cosette’s heart sunk, and she looked more carefully at the stranger who had ensnared Éponine.

 The man – tall, dark eyes and surely unnaturally reddened lips – fiddled with his tie. His whole outfit was possible soft grunge – not that Cosette was entirely sure what that was, but the amount of pastel and punk-rock spikes seemed to suggest a sort of ethereal and dangerous beauty, like a shark that smiled before it snapped its jaws. “I’m here because you owe me rent money, again – “ and his cheekbones cut valleys through his face – “and I need to pay Brujon back for that dope he leant me.”

 She narrowed her eyes, like a cat. “Oh, and I suppose you want me to fund your small-time drug dealing? No matter that, you know, I’m dead on my feet from classes and then I have to go and _run_ things for you and hope my cleavage is enough to distract the cops?” He just shrugged again, and looked around. He seemed uncomfortable.

 Cosette cleared her throat. “Coffee?” and Enjolras shot her a sharp glare. “What?” she asked, pulling a fresh cup from the shelf. “Aren’t you always going on about not judging people?” and he sighed.

 “It’s more that – “ and Montparnasse looked at him again.

 “What, your pretty little friend? What’s his name, Jehan?” and he half-leered in a way that (were Cosette not a lifelong appreciator of the ladies) would have made her heart race, because he sneered very prettily.

 “Just Jean, to you. Only his friends call him Jehan,” Enjolras half-spat. Cosette looked from one to the other, and poured the coffee shakily.

 Éponine scrunched up her nose. “Don’t bother with that, Cosette. I need to talk to my landlord, and thank you so much for the coffee and for talking. I – I have to go, but this place does fucking good coffee. And the view’s nice,” and Cosette felt herself blush ruby, and Grantaire poked his head out of the storeroom long enough for Enjolras to say “I’d like to – “ before vanishing again.

 “So – you’ll be back?” she asked, praying with every repressed-Catholic-schoolgirl bone in her body that she had got this right.

 Éponine nodded, and let one eyebrow drop in a lazy wink, before forcing her jacket back on and (slouching) following Montparnasse out the door.

 Enjolras looked at her. “I would ask, but in your position as Khaleesi I respect your need for privacy – not that I respect crowns or queens, but you  demand it just with your sweet smile.” He smiled, though, and glanced towards the back room. Grantaire stayed resolutely hidden.

 “Oh, she left you this,” he added, flipping a piece of paper idly between his fingers. “A number, but it’s smudged, because your pens are shitty and blotchy. Probably made by slaves in China. And it says “what a nice arrangement of deoxyribonucleic acid you have.””. He paused. “I know I’m not an expert on flirting, but – “

 She snatched the paper from his hand, ignoring him - because he had an extraordinary capacity to be a complete bitch - and smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry tbh


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sashaying is a word that should be used more, Cosette thinks. Gavroche pitches up; minor crime stuff. Please read it

Cosette had taken to keeping the piece of paper Éponine had written on, in the tips jar. People rarely gave tips, apart from her friends, and so she could (from where she sat on the tall chair stolen from the storeroom) keep her eye on it. She’d tried putting the paper in the oven, which Grantaire had laughed at, and Combeferre – the senior barista, quiet until you got him started on one of his many favourite things (moths, linguistics, the various successful republican states around the world – the discrepancy between “real” republicanism and the American version, as well) – had raised an eyebrow and turned back to grinding coffee beans, and putting it in the oven hadn’t helped because the ink had mutated into a sort of blob creature. The only thing she could now read was “acid”, but she’d memorised the loops of the handwriting, the curve of the C and the dash of the I, and the hopeful curl to the last letter.

 Grantaire said she had a problem – “it’s been four days, and she’s probably at class, or running drugs. I’m saying _nothing_ on that subject because yes, as a functional alcoholic – “ and she winced at his words, and he winced at the burn of the whiskey in his Fanta bottle – “I can’t comment on addiction. And like she said (which I wasn’t listening to, you talk loudly is all), she’s got siblings to look after, so calm down,” and he’d drawn her into a hug, and whispered sweet nothings – alarming when she realised he’d stolen them from Love Hearts.  

 Bahorel and Feuilly  - who had by now started smoking again, and was looking much more cheerful – watched them from their usual corner seat, and Bahorel flicked through his textbook pointedly. “You do know he never works, right? Don’t be quiet ,there’s no need - fill us in on this goddess!” Feuilly exclaimed, licking molten butter from his fingers. Bahorel watched him eat his scone like a hawk watches a rabbit, whilst Cosette and Grantaire told the tale

“Of course,” Grantaire added, his large hands dwarfing her shoulders, “She might not be into girls. That dealer was _very_ – “ and she  flicked her teatowel at his head.

 “If you’re going to say that – and she was flirting with me, and I may have been at an all-girls school until I was 16, but I can still recognise flirting because we’re all met Courfeyrac – then I get to say that Enjolras might not be into actual people. I mean, I  honestly think that last speech he made about politicians got him hard. That might be, you know, a fetish – “ and he ran chalk-smudged fingers (he’d been doing the blackboard outside, today opting for “There are cupcakes in here”) through his hair.

 “Firstly, don’t kink-shame – “ and she quirked the corner of her mouth up into a smirk. He frowned at her. “No, seriously. I mean, you literally told me only the other week that you have this massive thing for lacy stockings and leather, so I really don’t think _you’re_ in a position to judge. Secondly – “

 The door opened with a clang. A boy, blonde hair hanging down to his chin, and missing a tooth, loped in, walking with the easy arrogance of someone far older than him, someone not wearing what was obviously a hand-me-down Powerpuff Girls shirt. He marched up to the counter, and they could see scratches on his knuckles from scrapping, and bruises on his arms from wayward hits.

 “Do you do take-away coffee? Two, please,” and his voice was rough, as if he’d only learnt to speak from copying sounds made by lips wrapped around a bottle. Grantaire nodded at him, and he grinned, cheeks rising into a dimpled smile that Cosette was sure she’d seen before, reaching out to put a couple of pound coins on the table. The bruises on his face were thrown into sharp relief from the light that swung overhead, and Bahorel drew in a sharp breath, whistling through his teeth.

 “Been scrapping again?” he asked, and the boy looked up. His face was pinched, as if he’d seen things no nine-year-old should ever see, and he shrugged, collarbones jutting out from his scrawny neck. Cosette busied herself with the coffee machine, and when she finally got it to cooperate, Bahorel was showing the boy how to duck a punch. She half-smiled, and then put the two cups onto the counter; the boy, who was looking at his phone with his tongue sticking out in concentration.

 “Do you have any biscuits? It’s just that my sister said – “ and Cosette’s heart leapt in her chest.

 “Your sister?” she asked, smoothing down her apron, and pretending to line up the syrup flavours on the shelf.

“Yeah, do you remember her? She’s meant to be meeting me here, she just texted – can you do these drink-in, after all?” and (although it was against the regulations) she nodded, hardly daring to think in case her thoughts betrayed her, and started up the machine again. Grantaire patted her awkwardly on the back, and retreated to the storeroom in search of some clean cups.

 “What’s your name?” she asked, stealing a look at the piece of paper in the tips jar.

 He looked up guardedly. “The last person who asked me that was Inspector Javert, and he tried to arrest me on a misunderstanding about a minor graffiting incident. Either that, or you’re the sort of person who wants to “make friends” with every customer. What’s next, not paying your taxes?” and she stifled a laugh.

“Do you know Enjolras?” Cosette enquired, and then turned to look at the storeroom door. Sure enough, Grantaire poked his head out, and – upon seeing the boy – cried “Gavroche!” and grinned at him. Gavroche nodded to Cosette – “He’s a friend – well, I’m friends with his friends,” and Feuilly handed him a plastic bag with what looked like a bundle of clothes in.

“Don’t tell your sister, you know what she’s like about charity,” he told him, tapping his nose secretively, but before Gavroche could hide the clothes, the door swung open.

“Tell me what?” asked Éponine, sashaying (and they would later collude, and agree that there was no other way for her walk) into the coffee shop. Her shirt wasn’t see-through today, regrettably, but she was wearing lacy tights and a leather skirt, and Cosette (who wasn’t sure if this was just wish fulfilment, and elbowed Grantaire when he sniggered) shoved the coffees across the counter so quickly that they sloshed everywhere.

 “Oh. Nothing,” asserted Gavroche, who then skipped up to her and hugged her, skinny arms flung round her waist, and (if she ever read too much Freud, this would haunt her forever) Cosette was suddenly envious. She smoothed down her crease-free apron once more, and looked up at Éponine.

 “I was going to call, but the pen was all blobby,” she started, and Éponine blinked once, slowly, languorously, well aware of the way her eyelashes brushed, feather-light, against her cheeks, and shook her head.

 “Oh, I gave you the wrong number, anyway,” and she produced a pen from her pocket. “It’s non – blobby, but give me yours,” and she handed the pen to Cosette, who scripted her number across the delicate bones of Éponine’s hand.“The number I gave you was a disposable one – Montparnasse’s stupid habits have rubbed off on me,” and Gavroche frowned at her.

 “I don’t like him,” Bahorel said, and Feuilly nodded his agreement. “He’s a tool,” Bahorel went on. “He doesn’t fight fair – he’d bring a knife to a gun fight.” Feuilly laughed, but he didn’t sound amused. “And, he’s got his eye on Jehan. And Jehan seems to go for tools – apparently, it’s better for poetry. But he’s tough enough for Montparnasse.”

 Éponine raised an eyebrow. “This Jehan better be fucking hard, because Montparnasse and his cronies are tough as hell. Seriously – “

 Grantaire (loitering, pretending to wash up a glass, but they all knew it was the time of day that Enjolras usually came in) chimed in. “You know that Five-Point Palm thing? The one they use in Kill Bill 2? He knows that, apparently. And he can fence too – we’ve sparred from time to time,” and Cosette tried to reconcile the poet – slender, as pretty as Enjolras, spoke five languages, cried over Save the Tigers adverts on telly – with this near-assassin that Grantaire described.

 “Where is Montparnasse, anyway? And Jehan, for that matter?” Feuilly asked, looking around as if expecting them to pop up from behind the biscuit jars.

 Éponine shrugged. “They’re out of town. Well, Montparnasse is, which means I get relief from rent and the shit he makes me do for him. Don’t swear, Gavroche,” she added as an afterthought. “But yes,” and she capped the pen she’d been rolling in her fingers – “I’ll call you, maybe. That wasn’t a reference to the song, by the way. But yeah, life’s short and you’re hot – “

 “Is that a _Doctor Who_ reference?” Marius asked, walking in with Courfeyrac. It looked like he was wearing one of Courfeyrac’s bow ties – a bright orange, which clashed painfully with his freckles – and their arms were looped together. The group turned to look at him, and he blushed.

 (“Marius blushes a lot,” Jehan had once whispered conspiratorially as he returned a shirt he’d borrowed from her. Cosette had been surprised – Courfeyrac was practically a walking innuendo, and when she’d said as much, Jehan nodded sadly. “It’s the price you must pay for love,” and given her a sonnet.)

Gavroche hauled himself onto one of the stools at the counter, and snaffled a biscuit from the jar; Cosette, thinking about how bony his wrists were, pretended not to see, and he said “Éponine doesn’t like Doctor Who, she likes Quentin Tarantino and Greek food and windmills,” and looked at Cosette, as if daring her to say something. Her brain was still lingering, however, on the “hot” comment – which, coming from someone in lace and leather, seemed improbable – and she just smiled at Éponine, who (after examining her outfit today) leered back.

 “I like Doctor Who,” Bahorel said comfortably. “It’s got nothing on Game of Thrones – I mean, Enjolras actually calls you Khaleesi, doesn’t he? And you lot doubt he’s gay?” Grantaire perked up, and nodded excitedly.

 “Seriously, though, last time he was in I asked him what good it does getting angry at the world, and he added me on Facebook to bombard me with links about the ivory trade and transphobia and Nestlé, but I’m trying to engage him in a poke war. It’s not worked yet – “

 “And it will never work! He’s not going to care about anything so _terrestrial_ as Facebook – he only uses it to share links or put up scathing comments about the good Maths GCSE was!” but Grantaire silenced Courfeyrac with a look.

 “I believe in him,” he said smugly, and Gavroche pretended to vomit into his coffee cup. Éponine eyed him grimly.

 “On that note, I’ve got class to go to. I’ll give you a ring, okay?” and she slid another piece of paper across the table. Her nails today were painted red – badly, as if she’d been drunk or scared – and Cosette’s number seemed to suit her hand.

 As one, they all stared as she walked out the coffee shop, skirt swinging.

 “You’re fucked,” Courfeyrac told Cosette, helpfully, as she read the brief note on the paper – “I’d like to know more about the rituals of mating in primates, and you’re the biology nerd!”, no kisses.

 She shot him a two-fingered salute.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but Éponine has not yet given up hope - nor the belief that Cosette is actually some sort of fairytale character. This belief, in part, is vindicated.

“It’s been a while,” Cosette said, looking out at the frost-covered pavement. “Were you busy?”

 Éponine looked down at her hands, and then up at Cosette. Her hair had been cut shorter, into a messy pixie cut that made her cheekbones look as sharp as razors, and when she shrugged Cosette could see the faint mark of a new tattoo just beneath her bra strap.

“My parents decided they wanted to know me, and dragged us all to America on some hare-brained scheme – highly illegal, of course, but my brother and I got back. I had to steal my way to London, nicked a few credit card details here and some drugs money there, but I’ll reimburse them if I can,” and she looked back at her hands.

“Do you – well, Grantaire was thinking of leaving, doing an art history course, so there’d be a space if you – “ and she stopped, and blushed. Her hair was braided down her back, and her fingers had a green tint. She caught Éponine looking. “Macaroons,” she said, and pointed at a counter covered in shades of green and blue and pink and yellow. “I bake when I’m stressed,” and she switched on the coffee machine. “Black?”

 “I’ve found something – Montparnasse was pleased to hear from me, and I scared him into letting me work again – but can I bear this in mind? And oh god, I would kill for a proper coffee. But no, I’m here really because you mentioned your blond scary friend did charity stuff? Homeless people, stuff like that. Because I – “

 “You need somewhere?” Cosette asked, rummaging in the drawer for the coffee. “Grantaire!” she called, but there was silence from the back.

Éponine tried to hide her frown. “I don’t need charity,” and the curl of her lip was difficult to mask. “I could help, I suppose. You know, with queer kids who are homeless or poor kids or kids who face racism – like, I have a lot of experience with that,” and she didn’t look down at her hands this time but kept looking steadily at Cosette.

Cosette smiled. “Of course! We’re always in need of volunteers – you’ll need to be checked out, of course,” and she pushed a leaflet towards Éponine. “This is for the group Enjolras runs, and my dad helps ex-prisoners with rehabilitation. The two work together a lot, so you’ll be seeing a lot of me. And all my friends are involved with Enjolras’s group – “

 Grantaire – thinner than ever, deep shadows under his eyes – shoved the kitchen door open. “I’m not here just because you mentioned Enjolras, you know,” he warned, and then seized a macaroon. “Or to eat your lovely food,” he said with a mouthful of crumbs, swallowing convulsively. “Enjolras is back next week – he went on some saving-the-world trip to Sochi, and Courfeyrac and Marius have gone too. Feuilly was going to go with them but had to field questions about Scarlett Johansson and Sodastream and Israel for his parents, but I know Bahorel wanted to knock some heads together. But yeah – Enjolras left Combeferre in charge,” and he took another macaroon. “These are good,” he said, smiling.

“Do you, like, compulsively keep tabs on his movement?” Éponine asked, dropping her money into Cosette’s palm with care. “I mean, I know we’ve only met a few times, but I know that you’re – “

 Grantaire sighed, and the door swung open. Joly walked in, holding a stack of books which reached the tip of his nose; Grantaire looked grateful, and hurried to take some from him.

“Green tea, please,” Joly said, collapsing into a chair. “It’s slightly sunny outside and I thought that would be an excuse to sit in the park, but it is freezing after all. I did share my breakfast with a tiny sparrow, though,” and he smiled at Éponine. “Ah, I think I remember hearing rather a lot about you,” and Éponine raised an eyebrow at Cosette.

“He’s delusional,” Cosette said, stoically ignoring her blush. “He’s probably eaten some _ergot_ – “

 “Unrequited love makes you cruel, doesn’t it?” Joly asked her, and her nostrils flared; he paled slightly. “And Grantaire – how are you faring without Enjolras? Has he realised yet?”

“Realised what? I mean, the campaign to rattle cages in Sochi isn’t proof he’s gay – “ Grantaire started, but Éponine looked at him.

“Okay, so my gaydar might not be flawless – “ and she looked carefully at the wall behind Cosette’s head  - “but I got vibes from him. Does he still call you Khaleesi?” she asked Cosette, and she shrugged.

“Some arguments were made that Daenerys’s saving of the slaves is white imperialism and she is wreaking havoc with a culture she knows nothing of, and there were sulks,” Grantaire told them, trying to hide a smile. “But after the Red Wedding he did call me to talk about like, the futility of marriage as an institution. And then he persuaded me to sign some petition, so I’m not sure who won that one,” and he stole another macaroon.

“Do you not eat at home?” Joly asked, trying one for himself. “You’re looking a bit peaky – “

 Grantaire frowned. “I’m low on funds for food right now, and I don’t really want to talk about this,” and he disappeared into the back. Cosette sighed.

“Do you know how difficult he’s been to talk to whilst Enjolras has been away? I think he misses him a lot more than he’d ever tell us, but then he’s been in love with him for years, hasn’t he?” and she flicked the dishcloth in his direction.

“We never did, you know, manage to leave this coffeeshop, did we?” Éponine asked Cosette, messing up her hair slightly. She shifted position, and her shirt fell open a shade more. Cosette tried not to stare.

“What are you up to now?” Cosette asked, looking at the clock. “I think – I think I rather fancy some brioche, and the bakery up the road is cheap and local and non-exploitative,” and Éponine smiled.

“Grantaire!” Cosette called, and he poked his head round. “Can you watch the shop? Sorry, off out,” and he grinned at her and Éponine, and grinned at Joly, and then waggled his eyebrows. Cosette left, rolling her eyes.

The bakery really was just up the road, and it was festooned with leaflets.

“Hi, dad,” Cosette said to the man behind the counter – huge, with dark hair and beard. He looked nothing like Cosette, and he was wrapping up a loaf with long fingers. “Can we have some brioche rolls, please?”

 “Put some money in the collection box – it’s for Syrian refugees – and remember you have that biology work to catch up on,” he said, grinning at her. He opened the oven, and the bakery filled with the smell of fresh bread, and then took four rolls from the shelf inside. “I made these just now – I’m going to have to stay late tonight, by the way. So you’ll be on your own until about eleven,” and he smiled at them both. “Since my daughter seems incapable of making introductions, I’m Jean,” and he reached out a hand to her.

Éponine took it; her hand was dwarfed by his. “Éponine,” she said, and his face lit up.

“I’ve heard so much – “

 “Thanks, dad,” Cosette interrupted, and Jean tried to hide a laugh. “We’ll be off now,” and she grabbed Éponine’s hand and pulled her out the shop.

“Sorry about that,” she said as soon as they were outside in the cold again. The sun was shining a little more, but they could still see their breath in the air.

Éponine looked down at their joined hands, and Cosette let go; Éponine felt suddenly bereft, as if a life-raft had been snatched from her at the moment of salvation.

“Sorry about that,” Cosette said again, and nodded to a bench. “Shall we sit?”

 The bench was cold and frosty, and Cosette rubbed at her hands to keep them warm. “Brioche?” she asked, proffering the bag. The rolls were warm, and when Éponine took one, her fingers brushed Cosette’s.

“Sorry,” she said, and Cosette looked stricken, pulling her hand from the bag so quickly that it almost tore. “I – I really want to hold your hand,” she mumbled, hiding her face behind the roll, and this time, when Cosette took her hand, she didn’t let go.

A flock of geese flew overhead, and the clock struck three; the sun, already low in the sky over the green-grey hills which rose and fell in the distance, painted the clock-hands a burnished gold. Éponine’s face was flushed from the wind, and her eyes were bright, and she was the most beautiful thing Cosette had ever seen.

Cosette scrunched up the paper bag and shoved it into her coat pocket, and then took Éponine’s other hand. “This is nice,” she said, as the wind whipped at her hair. A squirrel darted in front of them to pick at the crumbs from the brioche, and Éponine laughed at that.

“Do, like, birds come and help you get dressed in the morning? Seriously, look at that squirrel,” and Cosette smirked.

“Would you like to find out?” she asked, grinning, and Éponine kissed her.

Her lips were soft, and tasted of sugar and cinnamon, and she kissed back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ellen Page came out so I wrote more coffeeshop queers

**Author's Note:**

> i'm going to continue this 
> 
>    
> [tumblr](http://enjolrastic.co.vu/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/beautyisterror)


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